


if only you would let you

by kafkas



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No DMV employees were harmed during the writing of this fic, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-24 01:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkas/pseuds/kafkas
Summary: ‘Figured it was somebody’s wife hollerin’ for 'em to come home,’ she says, leading Roland down the darkened stairwell, her heels clacking. ‘This here’s a fella, though. Knew your name. Said it was urgent.’Christmas Eve, 1984.





	if only you would let you

**Author's Note:**

> _ I will take good care of you, _  
_I will take good care of you, _  
_Every thing you feel is good_  
_If only you would let you._  
\- [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMSEvUnvrp4)

_i. _

The call comes through close to midnight. It’s a wonder anyone hears it at all, the precinct Christmas party in full swing, every off-duty cop in Fayetteville toppling down drunk. If a citywide crisis were to occur tonight, well. They’d be unequipped, to say the least.

It’s Cheyenne who finally picks it up – the phone, that is. She’s crossing the foyer, on her way to powder her nose, when she hears it ringing. ‘Figured it was somebody’s wife hollerin’ for 'em to come home,’ she says, leading Roland down the darkened stairwell, her heels clacking. ‘This here’s a fella, though. Knew your name. Said it was urgent.’ 

And ain’t that a horrifying thought? Roland wonders, with a sinking feeling, if it’s his father – if something’s happened to him or Ma. If it’s another accident he’ll make them sell that stinking farm, put his foot down this time and won’t relent –

‘Here y’go,’ says Cheyenne, smiling sympathetically as she passes him the receiver.

Then again, maybe it’s Wayne. Fucker’s never heard of an opportune moment in his life.

‘West,’ says Roland, curtly. Though the line’s still open, he receives no answer. Thinks he hears someone breathing, though it’s hard to tell over the roar of traffic in the background. A _payphone?_

He looks to Cheyenne in askance, and the secretary shrugs, her expression helpless.

‘This is Roland West,’ he repeats, raising his voice, and hears a definite intake of breath. Frightened-like.

‘Probably just a crank,’ Cheyenne murmurs, reaching across the desk to retrieve the phone. He waves her off.

‘Sir, are you in some kind of danger?’ he says, speaking carefully, ‘If you can’t talk, I can just…’ He trails off, unsure, actually, of how he can help, given how little he’s been given to work with. Thankfully, his recalcitrant friend chooses that moment to finally join the conversation.

‘_Detective West?_’

And Roland, who had until that moment been a little of bleary, close to calling it a night, feels jolted awake as surely as if somebody had just doused him with cold water. ‘Mr. Purcell!’

Cheyenne, hearing the sudden urgency in his voice, widens her eyes slightly. ‘Okay?’ she mouths, and Roland nods, flashing her a thumbs up. He waits until she’s retreated upstairs before speaking again.

‘Tom, hey man.’ He sits down at the reception, careful to keep the receiver pressed firmly against his ear. ‘It’s been, uh…’ _Almost four__ years. _‘Didn’t think you’d ever call. What can I do you for?’

There’s a long pause, during which Roland wonders if he’d just imagined Mr. Purcell’s voice. Then he speaks again, and it’s unmistakable. That dog-tired rumble.

‘_‘m sorry. Didn’t realize you were at a party_.’

Roland smiles thinly. First conversation in an aeon and right out the gate he’s apologizing. That’s Tom alright. ‘Not much of a party. You’re sparing me, really.’

‘_I called that number, the one you gave me. I called – a lot_.’ There’s an awful snuffling, coughing sound, like the man’s congested. Drunk, more likely. Drunk and ashamed. ‘_I called and your ansaphone, it said –_’

‘Yeah, I know man.’ _Howdy, you’ve reached Detective Roland West. If this is an emergency, you can reach me via the Fayetteville PD on the following number… _‘Forgot that existed, actually.’ Lori’s doing. She’d liked to ring in every now and then for a quick chat, while he was at the station. Didn’t anymore, though. 

Tom is silent awhile. Again, that thrum of distant traffic, the blaring of horns, and something about the image of the man stood alone outside some highway gas station makes Roland sick with worry. 

‘Look, Mr. Purcell, I know you didn’t just call to say hello – though I’m not necessarily opposed to that sort of thing. But if you’re in trouble, now’s the time to say, yeah?’

More sniffling. When Tom next speaks, he sounds wretched. ‘_They took my car_.’

‘Who’s that then?’

‘_‘m not sure. Council, I think._’

‘Okay. They leave a note?’

‘_I – I don’t know_.’ For a moment, the line goes quiet. Roland imagines Tom tucking the receiver under his arm, scrubbing at his eyes. ‘_I wouldn’t have called, detective, I swear, only my things – they’ve got my things, y’know? __And my parents –_’

‘What things, Tom?’ he interrupts, sensing a tear-fueled rant when he hears one. Privately wonders if by “things” Tom means something illicit. Immediately regrets it when the man says, utterly despondent:

‘_All of them_.’

_ii. _

He spots Detective West before Detective West spots him. Figured hanging around the truck stop was asking for trouble, so he's skulking inside the little Asian grocer's opposite when Roland pulls up in his Dodge. Through the smoggy window, he sees him clamber out, still limping a little, squinting like he’s maybe spoiling for a fight - and there are plenty of folks round this part of town who’d be happy to oblige him.

Tom swallows, dryly. Whatever party Roland had been at, he’d scrubbed himself up nicely for it. Looks handsome. Tom is suddenly, excruciatingly aware of his own bedraggled appearance; aware that he hasn’t shaved since he’d lost his razor; aware that he smells stale, every gym in town having caught on that he'd been sneaking inside to shower.

He considers running away, hiding in the store bathroom until Roland leaves, and he must move or something because it’s that exact moment Roland spots him, his gruff expression softening. He raises a hand slightly in greeting, and something inside Tom sags with relief. He’d imagined, somehow, that Roland would be angry with him - that perhaps that time four years ago, at the _Sawhorse_, was nothing more than a professional courtesy.

He steps outside, the wizened old woman behind the counter glaring at him as he leaves, purchasing nothing. A caravan of semis is trundling past and Tom has to hover awhile at the curb before crossing, an inconvenience which might have been humorous were it not for the bitter cold and the fact that he’d left his good winter coat in the car.

Roland helps him up onto the icy sidewalk, smiling grimly. Knows Tom’s not looking for false cheer.

‘Come on, man,’ he says, steering him toward the passenger-side door. Up close, it stuns Tom how little the detective has changed since he last saw him - same worn shearling jacket, same shaggy haircut under all the pomade (not what Tom thinks of, when he imagines policemen). Same hand grasping his forearm - wide, square palms.

‘Watch your feet,’ he says, and it takes Tom a moment to realise he’s talking about the couple of empty takeout cartons strewn across the floor. As if Tom hasn’t been living out of his own mobile pigsty the last two months.

Roland leans over to crank the heater, claps Tom on the knee once, like he’s telling him to stay put, and then quickly jogs back across the road. He returns a few minutes later with a grocery bag, which he tosses onto the backseat before throwing the Dodge into gear.

It’s not until they’re stuck at a red light that Tom trusts himself to speak. He’s not as drunk as he was when he’d made the phone-call, an hour ago, but he’s almost delirious with exhaustion and worried he’ll let slip something inappropriate again, like he did back in ‘80. Like how he’s gotten Roland’s number out of his wallet a hundred times over the last four years, so much so that he has it memorised, that he didn’t even need to look at it tonight.

‘Thank you,’ he mutters, hoarsely, ‘For coming to get me. Y’didn’t have to.’

Roland casts him a look, brow slightly furrowed, like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. It’s quickly replaced by his usual, brusque complacency. ‘No skin off my nose. Saved me a lot of boring small talk, I can tell you that.’

The light flashes green and they roll forward, tire chains crunching over snow. The heater’s working its magic at this point and Tom feels himself sinking back into his seat, face warm and eyelids heavy.

‘Y’ever gonna tell me you’d moved back to Fayetteville?’ Roland asks, voice coming as if from a ways off.

‘Wasn’t exactly receiving guests,’ Tom mumbles.

‘Well sure, but I could’ve been.’

Tom cringes inwardly at the thought. Being rescued like this in the small hours of the morning is embarrassing enough, but getting together like civilised people, over lunch? Tom entirely sober? What would they even talk about? Besides Will, and Julie?

It’s as they’re pulling into Roland’s driveway that Tom abruptly remembers the reason for his being there.

‘My car -' he starts, horrified.

Roland pauses midway through helping him to his feet - and he doesn’t need to, Tom’s not so drunk. His expression is fraught, like Tom’s not a man but a particularly difficult equation.

‘If the council’s towed it, they ain’t gonna let you pick it up tonight.’ 

Before Roland can leave him to go fish his keys out from their hidey-hole, Tom catches the detective by the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ he says, urgently, thinking of the money his parents had lent him, hidden in the glovebox. His clothes, the kids’ photographs, what little he’d been able to salvage from the evidence lockers -

Roland carefully extricates himself from Tom’s grasp, detective’s facade slipping again, revealing something bruised and tender.

‘Won’t let you pick it up tomorrow, either,’ he says, gently. Tom can only stare, uncomprehending. Roland winces, looking down at their feet in the snow, like Tom’s too painful to face head-on. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Mr. Purcell.’ 

_iii. _

Inside the house, things have changed. The tatty beige curtains are gone, replaced by a nice Venetian blind. New sofa, better lighting. Either Roland's thrown out all of his tacky rodeo memorabilia or it's been moved to another room (Tom hopes it's the latter). 

'It's - different,' he says, feeling strangely put out. 

'Yep, that's Lori for you.' Roland scratches the back of his neck, glancing around at the tasteful artwork on the walls, the rubber plant in the corner, like he's only just noticed them. 'One of those, uh, homemaker types.' 

'Lori is your -?' 

Roland gives him a look then, baleful and pleading, as if to say _please, don't. _

'Oh. I, ah - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.' 

Tom, still hovering in the entryway, wonders if it's too late for him to do a runner. 

Seeing his discomfort, Roland deflates. 'Naw, you... You ain't done nothing wrong. Just haven't had much cause to think about it, since it happened. Not till today, I suppose.' He sinks down into an old leather armchair - the same one from before, Tom notes, gratified - rubbing a hand over his jaw. 'Christmas Eve. Fuck. We're a sorry pair, aren't we?' 

'Would've been a lot sorrier if you hadn't picked me up back there.' 

Roland smiles then, a small, close-mouthed thing, vanished far too quickly for Tom's liking. He holds out the grocery bag. 'There's some aspirin and Tums in there. Why don't you take a shower, go get cleaned up?' 

Tom nods, accepting the little gift placidly. It's a relief to be told what to do. 

'Towel's on the rack,' Roland calls after him, 'Y'don't want to climb back into those clothes, just grab something of mine.' 

Not knowing what to say to that at all, Tom just nods again, shuffling away. He has no trouble finding Roland's wardrobe - it's a one-bedroom unit, not exactly a labyrinth. Grabs the first pair of sweats he can find, along with a faded old _M*A*S*H _tee shirt, trying not to linger over anything too long. There are a couple of distinctly feminine looking blouses hanging separate from all the blazers and button-downs, a pair of heels discarded on the bedroom floor, and Tom wonders, uncomfortably, just how recently Roland and his woman split. Hates to think he's caught the detective at a bad time. 

He washes vigorously, trying not to waste any water. Lathers his hair with shampoo before even turning on the tap. There's an indescribable relief that comes from feeling properly _clean - _not just showered, like he had under the limp, lukewarm water at the gym, but scrubbed raw. Afterwards, he sticks his head out into the corridor. Roland is still where he left him, slumped forward in his armchair, the back of his head a dark gold kernel in the lamplight. _Asleep?_

Not feeling so terribly harried now, Tom decides he wants a shave. There's little he can do about his raggedy mop of hair, curling down well past his ears at this point, but it feels liberating to have a bare face for the first time in nearly a decade. 

When Roland still hasn't stirred, Tom pads into the lounge-room and gingerly shakes him awake. The detective inhales sharply, gone rigid, before he recognises Tom's face in the gloom. He peers up at him, frowning bemusedly. 'Hey,' he croaks, 'Y'lost the stash.' 

'Borrowed your razor. Hope you don't mind.' 

'Nah, man, looks good.' Roland stretches in a way that reminds Tom of an old tomcat, sleepy and self-satisfied. 'I out for long?' 

'Half an hour.' 

'Huh.' Roland surveys him again, this time taking in everything from Tom's still damp hair to the tartan sweats that end a few inches above his bare feet. Tom feels his skin prickle, as if Roland were using his hands rather than his eyes.

'S'pose I should have accounted for height. Though I gotta say, you're thin as a beanpole these days.' Roland pauses, his gaze intent. 'You really been living outta your car?' 

'For a couple of months now.' 

Roland grimaces. 'Christ, Tom.' He pinches the bridge of his nose. 'That's... You could've told me.' 

Tom shrugs. 'Weren't so bad. I, uh - got this cheque, from my Pop. Enough to pay bond on a house. Just... couldn't seem to cash it, y'know?' 

And Roland looks as if he understands. Tom wonders how, because Roland doesn't seem like the kind of guy to ever be paralysed by indecision. 

'You take the bed,' he says, standing abruptly. 

Tom blanches. 'Oh - no, I -'

'It's no thing. I got some reports I gotta type up as is. You go on.' 

Tom stares at Roland's back as he disappears into the kitchen, his tired mumbling joined a moment later by the quiet burble of the percolator. He wonders if this is something he should fight him on. If a better man might insist on taking the couch. 

As it happens, the lure of a good night's rest proves too much for him. Tom hasn't slept in a proper bed since he left his parents' place in Shreveport, contending instead with the hard pallets of Christian refuge centres and the Y. Roland's unmade double with the slightly lumpy mattress is practically ambrosial by comparison. 

Tom slips between sheets that are clean and cool against his aching back. The pillowcases smell pleasantly of eucalyptus oil, and Tom wonders if that too is Lori's doing. Sniffs at his shirt collar experimentally and comes away with nothing but a heady whiff of cigarette smoke, and, well. That's definitely Roland. 

Tom drifts off to the sound of him clacking away on his Smith Corona, pausing every now and then to pour himself another cup of coffee. Thinks it ironic that the sound of what is undoubtedly a gruesome crime scene report in the making feels so comforting, like a lullaby. 

When he does, finally, sleep, he dreams of a dark country road, lined with snow. Of a car that never comes. 

_iv. _

Roland wakes with aching fingers and a ream of paper on the coffee table beside him. Two finished reports, one of which he has to give as part of a deposition at the end of the month. The third an incomplete comp-stat he doesn't feel academic enough to have been charged with. He wakes up feeling tired and stupid - not a good combination, when one is entertaining a guest. Brews himself the blackest cup of coffee imaginable and showers under scalding hot water, feels a little better. 

Tom's fast asleep when he checks in on him at 10. Still as a rock and not even snoring, and Roland might’ve worried that he'd gone and died in the middle of the night were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sleeping on Lori's side of the bed, he notes, with a twinge. Or at least, what had constituted as Lori's side, the few times she'd actually spent the night. Lori had been funny like that. Skittish. 

Roland ducks out again for groceries, figuring that he's going to be cooking for two until they can retrieve Tom's car. Is glad, in a selfish way, for the company. Glad too to see that Tom's not looking half as bad as he'd sounded over the phone; that he seems, if not happy, then at least calm, reasonable. 

Roland returns home to find him seated at the kitchen counter, back ramrod straight and eyes red-rimmed, and thinks that maybe he presumed wrong. Tom wants to leave, he says. Claims he's asking too much of him, as an old acquaintance. 

With a clipped sigh, Roland sets the grocery bags down on the counter. 'Put those in the fridge, would you?' 

Tom stares at him with wide, glassy eyes. 'When I called you,' he stammers, 'I didn't realise it was already Christmas.' 

'Eve.' 

'What?' 

'Christmas Eve.' Roland again indicates toward the groceries. 'Shit's gonna thaw out if you don't put it away.' 

Tom dead-fishes for a moment, looking for the life of him like Roland's speaking a foreign language, before nodding mutely and reaching for a carton of egg nog. They eat breakfast in silence, after which Tom quietly excuses himself. A while later, Roland nearly trips over him on his way out to the yard, sat on the stoop next to a mouldering china dish full of cigarette butts. 

Roland regards the top of his curly head a moment. Crosses the yard and tosses out the trash before trudging back through the snow. Roland can see Tom discretely tracking his approach, dark eyes wary. He flops down next to him on the damp concrete, retrieves a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Tom accepts one, lets Roland light it for him and inhales like it's some kind of life-giving succour. Something about it seems to calm him down, anyway, shoulders unwinding, the tension draining out of his body. He takes another long drag and then ashes, using his free hand to flick a speck of sleep out of the corner of his eye. 

'I'm sorry,' he says, after a while, 'Christmas is a - hard time of year. One right after it happened was the worst. Things so tense between me and Lucy, I thought she might just kill me. '81 an’ '82 weren’t much better. Spent those with my folks, but then, that's a different breed of torture, isn't it? Everyone always tiptoeing around you...' 

'Hell, I won't tiptoe, that's not what you want.' 

Tom looks at him. That same, sunken expression. Reminds Roland of an elderly dachshund. 'Thought this year might be different. Hold down a job more than a month. Get out from under my parents' feet. But it's like every time I put myself on a path, I end up losing my way somewhere. Self-sabotage, you know?' 

'Life dealt you an awful fucking hand, Tom,' Roland says, in what he hopes doesn't sound like empty platitude. 'Fucking dismal, and you've played it the best way you know how. Things like this, they're never smooth-sailing. Probably won't ever be.' 

'The last thing I want's to waste your time, detective.' 

'Ah, well. Got a lot of it to go around, these days.' Roland clamps a cigarette between his teeth. 'Parents are down in El Paso. I ah, got cousins in Little Rock, but... haven't seen them in years, probably wouldn't even recognise me. Wayne, my partner, he's vamoosed. Got a baby boy to look after. Lori...' Roland inhales, letting the smoke fill his lungs a long while before he exhales, voice raw. 'Lori says I ain't fit to live with. Says I am "incapable of tenderness." So, there y'have it. I'm all yours.'

Tom mulls that over a long while, smokes his cigarette all the way down to the butt. 'Y'gotta keep me from drinking,' he says, grimly, grinding out the ashes beneath his shoe. 

Roland sighs with quiet relief. 'That's no problem, Tom. That's... There're people we can talk to 'bout that.' 

Tom shakes his head, lip curling. 'S'not what I meant. Don't need no fucking nanny, driving me to meetings. But whatever you got in the house, y'have to hide it. I'm not - I don't wanna be like that, around -' Tom sniffs, cutting himself short. 'Don't wanna _put_ _that_ shit on you.' 

'Sure,' murmurs Roland, 'Sure, man. Whatever you need.' 

Tom nods, firmly, like he's trying to convince himself he's made the right decision. They pass the rest of Roland's cigarette between them and by the time it's spent Roland feels like Jack Nicholson at the end of _The Shining. _Clambers to his feet, bad leg stiff as a log, using Tom's shoulder for leverage. 'Right. I'm starved, gonna make us some lunch. I hope you like _puttanesca, _'cause it's the only thing I can make that's half decent.' 

_v. _

Rest of the day passes without incident. The pasta's actually pretty fucking good by Roland's reckoning, and Tom cleans off his plate just the same as he did at breakfast, like he's a recent escapee of some horrible internment camp. Announces that he's going to lie down around 3 and Roland's not about to argue with him, though he does have to insist on his taking the bed again. He uses the opportunity to get rid of any alcohol he has strewn around the house, right down to the nice bottle of single malt he'd gotten as a present from the DA, after that whole debacle at Woodard's. Decides he could use a break anyway, that he's been drinking too much since Lori split. 

Polishes off the rest of his comp-stat and by light of day manages to come up with something that's actually satisfactory. Tom comes stumbling into the kitchen at 7, right as Roland's plating a tub of _kung pao_ chicken - not his cooking, this time round - bleary-eyed but amiable, in his strange, droll way. Wants to know what Roland's been writing, so he fills him in over dinner about the case he and his new partner, Whitacre, have been working. Tries to make it as humorous as possible, talking about this tweaker biker they've got on manslaughter and all of his wacky associates, guys with nicknames likeBambi and Thumper_. _Avoids mentioning the guy's hollow-eyed tweaker kids. Doesn't think Tom would appreciate that little detail. 

Afterwards Roland puts on _True Grit_, which he's owned on VHS since he was at the academy and knows just about every word of. Tom starts to nod off again just as Rooster's tearing across the field toward his nemesis, Ned Pepper - _'Fill your hands you son of a bitch!' _\- and Roland nudges him with his toe. 

'Hey, you're missing the best part.' 

'Oh, I'm sure you can recite it all for me in the morning,' Tom murmurs, slow as molasses, his eyes almost closed. 

By the time Rooster's bid goodbye to Mattie, leaping over her four-rail fence on his new pony, Tom's fast asleep with his head tipped back against the window. Takes a bit of cajoling to get him to his feet, gone completely boneless like he has. Sort of has to drag him to the bedroom. Roland wonders, apprehensively, if Tom's found his way into some forgotten stash of booze. But his breath is clean when Roland manages to lean over and get a whiff (well, as clean as the breath of a guy who's just ate his weight in _kung pao _chicken can be). 

No, Tom's just tired. Has been for a long time now, Roland suspects. The kind of tiredness that can't be cured by just a good night's sleep. He's mumbling something as Roland's helping him tug his shoes off, swaying slightly from side to side. 

'Sorry man, didn't hear y'there.' 

'She shouldn't have said that,' Tom slurs, '_Lori_. Those things she said t'you.' 

Roland glances up at him then - doesn't like to hear Lori's name spoken in anger, no matter what went down between the two of them. But Tom looks so earnest, his eyes shining wetly in the light of the streetlamp outside, that Roland can't quite bring himself to reprimand him for it. 

'You're a _good _man, Detective West,' he says, very forcefully. His tone sets something ringing in Roland as surely as a tuning rod, and for a moment he's frozen in place there on the bedroom floor, one of Tom's dusty work-boots still clutched in his hand.

_Oh_, he thinks, pity rising in his throat like a sob. 

_Oh, Tom. _Remembers, with newfound clarity, every one of Lucy's snide remarks. Dan O'Brien's smug fucking face. _Every marriage has its own story. _

The way Tom had looked at him the night he'd picked him up from the _Sawhorse, _when he thought Roland wasn’t paying attention_. _Like he’d hung the moon. 

It's the headlights of a passing car roving gold across the bedroom wall - illuminating Tom, the perennial furrow between his brow, the smudges of colour high on his cheeks - that finally snaps him out of it, makes him exhale a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. 

'Yeah, sure,' Roland replies, lightly. He claps Tom on the knee as he stands, sees how disappointed the other man looks as he does it. Wonders what it was he'd been hoping for. 

(Knows, really, what he'd been hoping for). 

'Goodnight Tom,' he murmurs, and spotting the digital clock on the nightstand, pauses in the doorway. 'Merry Christmas.' 

_vi. _

Tom wakes up to the sound of bacon frying and John Denver’s _Christmas for Cowboys_, the benefit of which is that there’s none of yesterday’s sleepy confusion as to whose house he’s in. It’s half past nine, which, while not exactly early, is the most reasonable hour Tom’s managed to achieve in a while, his thinking since he lost his job being that the more time out of the day he spends asleep, the better.

Roland is busy speaking to somebody on the phone when he manages to drag himself out of bed. He’s stood in the kitchen in a ratty striped dressing-gown, metal turner brandished in one hand and the receiver in the other. Tom just stands in the doorway and watches for a while as Roland pokes at the frying pan, speaking with that early morning roughness unique to smokers.

‘Yeah, Ma. I got em. S’much appreciated. Boys down at the station say I look very snazzy... Aw, well shit, that’ll be the pile-up on 20. Call me when you do, y’know, ‘cause I think I picked out one he’ll really love... Yeah, I know, but a man can hope.’

Tom makes his presence known then, not wanting to appear as if he’s eavesdropping. Roland nods a greeting, gestures towards the freshly boiled percolator.

‘Oh, aches and pains, Ma, aches and pains...’ he says into the mouthpiece, reaching down to turn off the gas. ‘Whitacre’s still solid, yeah... No, I haven’t spoken to her... ‘Cause she’s a crazy old bat, Ma.’

Tom bites down on a laugh. Roland grins, meeting his gaze conspiratorially. Smile fades when his mother starts speaking again, though.

‘Nah, she ain’t,’ he murmurs, hefting the frying pan, ‘Talked to her last Sunday. Got her coffee. It’s just where she’s at right now, Ma, with her job and her folks... Yeah I know. Crying shame. Uh-huh. Hang on a sec.’ Roland places the phone down on the counter. Lifts a skillet of scrambled eggs and plates them along with the bacon. Picks up the phone again and is more firm this time around, ‘Look, Ma, I’m gonna call you back tonight. I got company right now and here I am gabbing... No, nobody special -‘ he casts Tom an apologetic look, ‘No, just a friend, Ma. A neighbour... Yeah... Uh-huh... Love you too... Okay, bu-bye now.’

Roland hangs up while Tom’s pretty sure he can still hear Mrs. West speaking, fast-paced and shrill. Takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, groaning.

‘She sounds nice,’ Tom says, reaching for his plate.

‘She is,’ Roland agrees, wearily, ‘Lovely woman. Made me the man I am today. But Christ can she _talk_.’

‘Y’didn’t have to cut her off on my account.’

‘You’re damn right I didn’t,’ Roland says, sitting down. His eyes sparkle, which is - Tom didn’t think eyes actually did that, outside of cartoons. ‘Merry Christmas, Tom.’

‘Merry Christmas, Detective West.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Roland exclaims, ‘You’re wearing my clothes and eating my food, man. Think we can refrain from the formalities, just for today? All men equal before God and all that?’

‘Yessir, detective.’

‘Hey, fuck you.’

Neither of them mention Tom’s outburst the previous night. Tom hopes, privately, that Roland’s forgotten all about it. Knows he hasn’t when he sees him watching him later that day, as he’s stacking dishes, pained and bewildered, like he’s just biding his time until he can figure out what to do with him.

‘I’m, uh, gonna go for a walk,’ Tom says, drying his hands.

‘Perfect day for it,’ Roland calls from the other end of the house, ‘Y’want me to come with?’

‘Oh, uh. No. No, that’s alright. I, uh... think I just need to be on my own for a bit.’

There’s a pause, weighted, and then, ‘Yeah, sure thing, man. You have fun.’

He takes the bus to West Finger Cemetery. Spends a while trying to find the right markers, everything looking as different as it does under a blanket of snow. He tries to visit their graves as often as possible, though lately he's had trouble mustering the will-power - what's the point in ceremony when one casket lies empty and the other haunts him as surely as if it did?

Still, it's gratifying to see that somebody other than himself has been tending to the tombstones, the marble still a pristine white, the inscriptions below the kids' dates as clear as ever - words Tom had picked out, Lucy not wanting anything to do with the planning of the funeral. Not wanting anything to do with anyone, really, and Tom can’t blame her.

_"Sleep on now, and take your rest."_

_"I thank my God upon every remembrance of you." _

After swapping out autumn's plastic flower arrangement for a couple of sprigs of holly, pilfered from a box of unused Christmas ornaments in Roland's wardrobe, he crosses the road to a payphone and calls his parents. Figures they're expecting word from him anyway. Also just wants to hear their voices - his Mom's bitching about their neighbours, one of his Pop's sprawling, doddering stories that never really go anywhere. 

Louise Purcell picks up on the first ring, so ecstatic that Tom can hardly get a word in. It occurs to him as she gushes that he hasn't called since he left Shreveport, almost four months ago. Tries to assuage his guilt by asking in earnest about her life - her book club, her bad hip, whether or not his father's finally finished that ill-advised paint-job in Tom's childhood bedroom turned office space. Manages to lie smoothly enough to his Pop about losing his job, though can't quite bring himself to claim he's rented a house using the money he'd given him. Tells him he's staying with a friend until he can find someplace suitable. 

'_A friend?'_ Roy repeats, unable to veil his surprise (Tom hasn't exactly been the most sociable person these last few years). Unable too to mask the implicit question mark tacked onto the end of that phrase, searching and a little uncomfortable. His father's always understood him better than his mother, try as she might. 

'That, uh, detective from - from back in '80.' 

'_The black fella?'_

'Oh, no. Uh. His partner, Detective West. Roland West.' 

'_Oh, the _short_ fella_.' Tom can't help but smile a little, wondering what Roland might have to say about that particular descriptor. '_That's wonderful to hear, bud_,' his Pop enthuses, and there's a palpable note of strained relief in his tone. As if he can't even conceive of a queer cop. 

Though that's not to say that Roland is - 

'_Louise_,' Roy calls, '_Tom's in Fayetteville right now with that detective from '80. Helpin' him find a house. Ain't that just swell?' _

'_Oh,_ _I_ _remember him_,' comes his Mom's voice, slightly muffled, '_Such a polite young man. Real charmer. I do hope you're paying your way there, Tom_.' 

'Yes ma'am,' he lies. 

There's a pause and then his father speaks, softly now. '_You been to see the kids, bud?'_

'Yeah,' Tom says, and if lying like an asshole to his parents hasn't quashed what little's left of his good cheer, the sound of his father’s voice, so foreign in its unexpected tenderness, swiftly finishes the job. 'Yeah, Pop. I seen 'em. Said hello for you and Mom.' 

After that he wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed, pull the sheets up over his face and disappear. Tries to keep it together for Roland's sake - doesn't want to ruin his Christmas - but it's like the man's got a sixth sense for misery. He tells Tom he's got some errands to run - god knows how he'll run them, with everything closed. Clears away his files from the coffee table and lets Tom sit slouched in the living-room, trying and failing to absorb one of his battered National Geographics, until evening, when he appears in the doorway with two plates of oven-ready turkey. 

They eat on the sofa, watching another one of Roland's old cowboy movies. Roland reins in his commentary for the most part, cognisant of Tom's black mood, though he does still occasionally rhapsodise about Steve McQueen's acting prowess. 

'Should be illegal for a guy to be that fucking handsome,' he grumbles during one of the shootouts, and Tom thinks _that's rich, coming from you. _Is tempted to say it out loud but stops himself at the last moment. 

Eventually he's kicked off the couch, Roland claiming that the turkey's made him sleepy. 'Need all my energy to hunt down that goddamn car of yours tomorrow, don't I?'

Tom carries their dishes over to the sink, tries to ignore the sight of his own reflection in the kitchen window. Showers without really being conscious of where he is or what he's doing and brushes his teeth with the new toothbrush Roland had bought him the previous day. Collapses face-down on the bed without pulling back the duvet and imagines that he can feel the core of him sink all the way down through the mattress, heavy as a stone. 

And that's how Tom Purcell spends Christmas, 1984. 

_vii. _

He hears the sobbing before he's fully awake. One moment he's in the dream, something about helping his mother pluck chickens on the back porch, a pretty cosy fantasy by West family standards, and the next minute he's hit by this choking wave of sadness. Wakes feeling disorientated and downright tearful, and that's when he hears it. 

At first, he thinks something terrible's happened, like Tom's burst an appendix or shot himself in the foot with Roland's service pistol. Scrambles to his feet and nearly goes keeling over Lori's glass coffee table, and _fuck _he wishes he'd fought her on that one. Throws the bedroom door open and rushes to Tom's side, only Tom doesn't say anything - doesn't yell at Roland to call an ambulance or apply pressure to a wound - because Tom is still asleep. Asleep and weeping like he's being rent in two. 

'Christ,' Roland mutters. He wonders if he should wake him - if this is somehow like sleepwalking and he could risk giving Tom a heart attack. Hears another low, despairing moan - 'No, no, no, no...' - and decides that a heart attack might be more enjoyable for him than this. Grips him by the shoulders and _shakes_. 

Tom comes awake like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. Eyes wild, every muscle in his body seized up. There's a moment of silence where Roland thinks that the worst of it's passed - that Tom's awake now and things are going to be, if not entirely alright, then at least familiar. And then Tom is blinking at him, all deer-in-the-headlights, frightened like he hasn't just spent the last three days living in Roland's house. 

'Roland?' he asks, in a voice that's barely there from all the hollering he's done. 

'Yeah man,' Roland murmurs, gently, 'It's me. I got you.' 

That sets Tom off crying again - silent, shuddering sobs - and Roland's only got one hip up on the mattress, not enough purchase to bear the sudden weight of the man cleaving to his shoulder. Roland clings onto him anyway, one hand gripping Tom by the scruff of his neck like he's some kind of wolf-pup, another rubbing up and down his back. 

'Hey now, hey. You're alright. You're - you're _here_ now.' _Not there. Wherever_ there _is_. 

'Will, and Julie - it was - they were -'

'I know, man,' Roland interrupts, even though he doesn't know. Can't possibly imagine what kind of shit goes on behind the guy's eyes while he sleeps and doesn't even really want to. 

Eventually, Tom calms down, not because any of Roland's motherly clucking has actually taken effect, but because he's simply too tired to keep on panicking like he is. Takes a long time to stop shaking though, and when Roland moves to stand, he grips him by the elbow hard enough to hurt. 

'_Please_,' he begs, and it's awful - really fucking awful - seeing a grown-man looking at you like that. Like you're all there is between him and the edge. 

Roland can’t find it within himself to argue. Carefully extricates himself from Tom’s vice grip and then clambers over to his side of the bed. Most of the linen’s been kicked off but Roland finds he’s too exhausted to give it any thought.

‘Y'gotta make sure,’ Tom’s mumbling, like a mantra, ‘Gotta make sure. Can't leave her. Gotta make sure -'

‘Of what?’ Roland asks, and Tom stops suddenly, like he hadn’t realised he’d been talking. Lays down and pulls his legs up to his chest, foetal-like. Roland regards the jagged ridge of his spine, the short curls at the nape of his neck. ‘Make sure of what, Tom?’

And either his bedmate doesn’t feel like explaining himself or he’s already asleep.

Roland wakes up the following morning with Tom's cold fucking nose pressed against his shoulder, an arm thrown over his side and a knee kind of jammed up into the small of his back. And maybe Roland wakes up half-hard too, but that’s hardly an abnormal occurrence. He deals with it discretely in the shower like a normal human being and doesn’t think anything of it until he’s back in his room later that morning, looking at Tom still asleep in his bed and feeling distinctly disgusted with himself. Resolves firmly that he is going to find Mr. Purcell’s car today if it’s the last thing he does, and that maybe he’ll get himself a stiff drink or two on the way to the DMV, just to take the edge off. 

_viii. _

Tom wakes with a splitting migraine, the kind that utterly paralyses, and if he weren’t completely sober he'd be trying to recall the previous night's bar-fight. Lays there in the cool dark until it passes, becoming instead a dull, throbbing ache between his brows. Reaches out gingerly with one arm but of course Roland is gone, it's already midday, and Tom doesn't think he can stand to look at him anyway, not after the way he's behaved, the memory of which creeps up on him bit by bit until he's nearly curled in on himself with shame. 

'God _damn _it,' he grits, thumping his pillow, 'God _fucking _damn it.' 

He eventually manages to drag himself upright, notes the aspirin and the glass of water on the nightstand and feels another wave of guilt. Wonders if Roland's going to start cutting the crusts off of his sandwiches next, for all the coddling Tom seems to require. And he hates, suddenly, that he's wearing Roland's clothes; that he _has_ been wearing them for the last two days and hasn't said anything, hasn't asked where his stuff is, hasn't really wanted to. Digs it out from beneath a pile of dry-cleaning in Roland's tiny laundry, an old receipt turned into mouldy confetti in his back pocket.

It's as he's buttoning his shirt that the doorbell rings, sending tiny little razorblades skittering around the inside of his skull. 'Coming!' he shouts, and it's Roland's house, _why the fuck doesn't he have his goddamn fucking keys - _

The bell rings again a moment later, and this time the bastard's got his finger firmly glued to the buzzer, and Tom swears he's going to throttle him, feels almost hysterical. Hates that Roland's probably out there right now with his car, and a takeaway coffee, and a smile. Hates that he's so kind to Tom even though Tom doesn't deserve it, even though he doesn't _know_ \- is kind to Tom _because_ he doesn't know - 

And he's storming to the door and throwing it open, ready to ruin the only good thing that's happened to him since '80, only it's not Roland, it's a woman, her eyes widened slightly, a biscuit tin cradled in her elbow. 

'Hi?' she says, not exactly frightened - it's hard to be frightened of a guy who looks like he's about to keel over with exhaustion - but taking a step back nonetheless. 

Tom looks down at his bare feet, his crumpled shirt, which he now realises he's buttoned unevenly, and looks back up. 'Roland's not here,' he says. 

'Well, I can see that.' The woman smiles, her mouth twisting a little, like she's trying not to laugh. 'Any idea when he'll be back?' 

'Uh.' Tom peers off down the road, praying that he'll see Roland's Dodge cresting the rise any second. But the street is dead. 'I, uh...' 

The woman finally relents, sticking out a hand in what strikes Tom as a very peppy gesture, like something a girl scout would do. 'I'm Lori,' she says, gently, helpfully. 

_Lori. _Tom shakes her small, dainty hand, brain flatlining. 'Tom Purcell,' he says, without even thinking about it, and Lori's eyes widen just a fraction more. 

'Oh my word.' She raises a hand to her mouth, forgets the biscuit tin. It bounces once, twice, on the doorstep and spins a moment like a dreidel before coming to rest at their feet. 'I am - so sorry,' she stammers, bending down, a sheath of dark hair falling across her eyes. When she pops back up again she's entirely recovered, though a tad paler. 'Tom, it's been so long! I didn't recognise you without your moustache.' 

Tom frowns. 'Do we -'

'Oh, we went to church together for a while,' Lori says, and Tom _does_ remember now, vaguely. A yellow ribbon tied in her hair, four pews up from he and the kids. Good singing voice. 

'Lori,' he echoes, reaching for a surname. 

'Earley. Dolores, if you're my mother.' And she laughs, and Tom laughs, and god what the fuck is he doing - 

'D'you wanna come in?' he asks, stepping to one side, and Lori looks for a moment like she's going to decline - like this is as awful for her as it is for him - but good Southern breeding wins out and she nods, brushing past him into the entryway. 

_ix. _

'Found it parked on the gravel off Route 49. Tires were flat and it looked pretty filthy. Thought maybe it'd been abandoned.' The attendant glances over his shoulder at Roland, makes sure he's keeping up with him. Roland grimaces. He must have tweaked something last night because his leg's stiff the way it was right after he got shot, as useless as a piece of driftwood trailing by his side. 'Anyway,' the kid says - he can't be older than twenty-four, twenty-five, 'We'd have issued a ticket only it's illegal to park on a junction like that. Traffic hazard. You oughta tell your friend, you see him.' 

'You assholes usually pull that kind of shit on Christmas Eve?' 

The kid flushes beneath his eczema, stutters to a halt beside a little black and white Chevy. 'This the one?' 

Roland checks the plate, although he recognises the car well enough. Remembers how pristine it'd looked back in '80 ('Tom's stupid fuckin' vanity project,' Lucy Purcell had called it, nibbling on the ragged edge of a cuticle). 

'Yeah, that's the one.' 

The kid hands Roland the clipboard and paperwork, watches him fill it out like Roland's planning on doing a runner with his precious ball-point. 'So this guy a junkie or something?' he asks, smacking his gum, 'Get a lot of them round here. Junkies and cruisers.' 

'Do you enjoy your job?' Roland murmurs, still writing, 'You enjoy needling people like this, you miserable little piss-ant?'

The kid gapes at him, eyes wide. 'I, uh -' 

'Uh, uh,' Roland mimics, and shoves the clipboard into his chest, 'Fuck off. Go make someone else's life difficult.' 

He feels bad about it later, as he's pulling out of the parking lot, the poor kid looking like he's afraid Roland's going to run him down as he lifts the boom gate. Feels good about it again when he takes in the car's interior - the pillows and blankets on the back-seat, the plastic bag full of beer cans hooked over the gear stick - like berating a DMV attendant somehow makes up for all the heinous shit the world's put Tom through. Sees the freshly-pressed suit hanging from the dry-cleaning handle - there in case of job interviews, he imagines - and has to wipe his eyes at the next red light. He can hear Wayne in his ear, telling him he's gone soft. That he's compromised. 

'Compromised how?' Roland mutters aloud, 'Case's closed, Purple.' 

_Oh, you been compromised a long while now. Since way before them kids. _

Roland curses under his breath, pounds the steering wheel. That earns him a worried glance from the young mother idling in the SUV next to him. He smiles, weakly, offers her a nod. He wishes he'd eaten breakfast before heading out. Wishes he hadn't drank that whisky at the sports bar down the road, the alcohol now sloshing about in his empty stomach, making him nauseous. His face feels hot. 

'Get it together,' he mumbles, and he's never been the kind to talk to himself before now, 'Jesus Christ, Roland. You a teenager or what? Fuck.' 

And Roland's _been_ with men before. Fooled around in motor-pool, but then, so had a whole lot of other guys. Had dated a hippy girl in college, before he'd transferred to the academy, who found it all very progressive, called Roland a "freethinker." And Roland hadn't seen what was so radical about getting your rocks off with some linebacker behind a bicycle shed, but then, Roland hadn't exactly been doing a whole lot of thinking in those years, free or otherwise. Mostly he'd just been trying to forget the war, have a good time. And maybe he'd gotten in too deep a couple of times, fallen partway in love, talked about settling down. And that scared guys. Scared some of the girls, too.

This is - a little like those other times. Only this is Tom Purcell. Tom, whose kids were murdered. Tom, who Roland, in the course of his duties, had been obligated to inform of this fact, and whose face Roland had watched crumple and go rigid with anguish. Tom, who Roland had watched sink to the kitchen floor and _howl _like a wounded animal. 

Tom, who Roland doesn't think can take any more pain without buckling completely. 

_x. _

Lori is nice. Lovely, actually - the kind of quiet, clever woman Tom should've married, instead of clinging onto the head cheerleader for dear life - like wearing a letterman jacket and driving a Chevy Coupe would somehow make him less of a fag. Then again, he wouldn't want to trick someone like Lori into a farce like that. Shouldn't have tricked Lucy into it, mind, but then, getting hitched had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, her being pregnant and all. Knowing his parents would understand, forgive, but that Lucy's aunt and uncle would just as soon kick her to the curb. With her dragging him up the steps of the court house, it had seemed an easy thing to sign his name, to say the lines. Like acquiescence. 

Quickly turned out to be among some of the worst decisions he's ever made, but Tom can't quite bring himself to regret it. Lucy had been - frightened. Most frightened Tom had ever seen her, before or since. Six months later Will was born, and after that it didn't feel so much like being trapped as it did putting up with a woman he didn't like in order to raise a son he loved more than anything. Bearable, to an extent. 

Lori doesn't ask about Lucy and the kids. Doesn't ask why he's living with Roland beyond joking about him being an awful roommate, to which Tom replies, flustered, 'Oh, no, he's really - he's been so kind. Even made me take the bed.' 

While Tom's boiling them a pot of green tea - Lori had made a face when he'd reached for the percolator: 'Oh no, I'm trying to cut down' - she sneaks into Roland's room and collects the rest of her things. Comes out looking sheepish with a pair of high-heels hooked on her index finger. 

'He tell you why we split?' 

Tom shakes his head, pretends like the kettle is acting up so he doesn't have to look at her. Doesn't really want to know. 

(Is desperate to know, and is worried she'll see it). 

Lori gives him a tally: conflicting schedules; Roland's poorly hidden lack of interest in her line of work and her distaste for his; her parents had found him boorish, his found her uptight. The usual hang-ups. 

'But it the end, I was the one who threw in the towel,' she says, sighing. Takes a sip of her tea and considers, a crease between her brows. 'Think if I hadn't we'd have just gone on like that. Roland's never really known how... or when... to quit.' She looks at him then, searchingly, her brown eyes shining. 'Does he seem well, to you?' 

'Uh.' 

'I only ask because I - said some things -' _Incapable of tenderness,_ Tom remembers, and feels suddenly a little cooler toward her.Lori winces, like she's remembering the exact same thing. 'I worry that I was... unnecessarily cruel.' 

'Oh, I'm sure you didn't - I mean, Roland doesn't seem -' Mercifully, Tom _can_ hear a car pulling into the drive now. Lori hears it too, rises from her chair. 'I'll... give you two some space,' Tom says, making to leave. 

'Oh, no, please don't,' Lori begs, snatching up her handbag, 'I really have to run and I just know I'm going to stand here gabbing like an idiot. You're my excuse.' 

Tom opens his mouth to argue, but then Roland's key is in the door, and Lori is already sprinting forward to intercept him. 

'Lor!' he exclaims, and Tom tries to ignore how pleased Roland sounds beneath the confusion. 

'Hey there!' A peck on the cheek, more a way of slipping past him into the entryway than a genuine display of affection. 'I was just grabbing a few things. There's biscuits in the kitchen. Tom's got the whole story.' 

'Okay,' Roland says, bemused, 'You - wanna sit down? Tell it yourself?' 

'I - oh, dear... Look, Roland, I really can't right now...' 

And Tom can't take it anymore. Retreats to the bedroom, pretends not to hear the whispered argument happening a dozen meters or so away. Comes out half-an-hour later, when he's absolutely certain Lori's gone. Finds Roland staring out the kitchen window, hands braced on the sink.

'Sorry 'bout that,' he says, sounding more flat than Tom's ever heard him, 'Didn't know she'd be coming round.' 

'S'okay.' Tom hovers in the doorway, not entirely sure what to say. Tries for levity: 'Not everyone's ex brings them gingerbread.' 

'Yeah,' Roland laughs, with a sort of bitter amusement, 'That's Lori.' Stands there a while longer, until the tension is worn so thin Tom's half-expecting him to punch something, throw a plate. Roland turns abruptly instead, makes a beeline for the front door. 'I'm going out,' he says, snatching his keys from the bowl, 'Running some errands. Your car's in the drive.' 

'Thank y--' Tom begins, only to be cut off by the slamming door. 

_xi. _

Tom cleans, which is what he does when he's anxious and doesn't know what else to do. What he had done after the kids went missing. Feels he owes it to Roland anyway, after living out of his pocket the last three days. He vacuums the spongy lounge-room carpet, wipes down the kitchen and bathroom floors. Roland's an orderly guy but he's not exactly fastidious, and Tom knows how mess can pile up after a couple of days' inertia. He tosses out nearly everything in the medicine cabinet, which is filled with mostly empty dishes of Lori's moisturiser, a couple of dead spiders and some long expired prescriptions. He finds a bottle of oxycodone and feels a rush of guilt wash over him. Roland grits his teeth through the pain so staunchly that it's easy for him to forget sometimes that the guy took a bullet to the leg. Tom thinks he really should have fought him over the couch. 

They're out of toilet paper so he grabs his wallet and makes a trip to the IGA. Is so relieved to be back behind the wheel of the Chevy that he ends up driving around aimlessly for a couple of hours, listening to the radio. Comes back with a grocery bag full of things he can't really afford but has noticed Roland's home is lacking - bin-liners, cooking oil, a good scour. Ink for his typewriter. 

Tom makes himself a lonely dinner from the chicken-breast and coleslaw left over in the fridge. Brings some of his things in from the car - things that really don't belong in a car, like his toothbrush and towel. Spends a while sitting cross-legged on Roland's bed, going over pictures of the kids. Four-year-old Julie grinning in heinously mismatched corduroys and sweater, having attempted to dress herself that morning. Will as one of the shepherds in a school nativity play, looking uncomfortable with all the attention. Julie at Christmas - she and Will had fought over something or other that morning and she's still red-faced and sullen looking. Will knee-deep in a river somewhere, fly-fishing, intensely focused - and he'd get that way sometimes, as serious at twelve-years-old as any philosophy professor. 

They're such innocuous snapshots that for a moment Tom is able to forget that they're gone. Can pretend he's looking at some other happy family's photo album. 

Roland stumbles in the door around 10, trying, Tom can tell, to be stealthy. Stubs his toe on the coffee table and curses, giving himself away. 

'Can see now why your partner was lurp,' Tom calls, and receives nothing but a grunt in response. Roland appears a moment later in the corridor, crossing to the bathroom. Turns on the tap with what looks like some difficulty and plunges his hand into the sink, hissing through his teeth. Tom frowns, rising to his feet. 'You hurt yourself?'

'S'just a scratch,' Roland mutters, and Tom calls bullshit, can see the water turning pink from ten feet away. Draws closer and gets a strong whiff of ethanol, knows Roland's been drinking, hard. Tom himself had smelt pretty similar until fairly recently. 

'Who?' he asks. 

Roland shakes his head, avoiding Tom's gaze in the mirror. Shoulders hunched up, hiding his face. 'Just some guy. Bothering some couple. Bothering _me_.' He shakes his hands dry and Tom can see he's split his knuckles open, torn up the meat of his palms. 

'Christ, he hold y'down and step on'm?' 

'Jumped me in the parking lot. Man'll do that, if he knows he's unpopular. Wait till you're alone.' 

Roland finally turns, and there's a red, shiny spot high on his cheekbone that's going to bruise come morning, turn yellow. Standing there in his undershirt, hair hanging down like commas, Tom is reminded of Marlon Brando, of a film Lucy used to enjoy. _I have always depended on the kindness of strangers._

'What're you wearing them old clothes for?' Roland demands, scowling at Tom's flannel button-down like he's got a personal vendetta against it. 

'I think it's time I found a place of my own,' Tom says, and his throat feels stuffed full of cotton, his words clumsy. 'I got my car back now, and the money from Pop. I'll book into a hotel room. I think -' he speaks quickly, can see Roland gearing up to argue, '- that my being here any longer is - it's a bad idea. It's dredging stuff up.' 

'Dredging stuff up...?' 

'Yeah, and,' Tom forces himself to smile, 'I'm better now. Thanks to you. Finally got a hold of myself.' 

'Oh.' Roland blinks, scratches at the back of his neck. Leaves a spot of blood on his collar. 'Well, that's - that's great, Tom. I'm - I'm proud of you, man.'

And he looks so confused, so _sad_, that Tom can't help but reach out, tugging Roland toward him in a shuffling, one-armed hug. Pats him on the back and Roland makes a pitiful noise in his throat, like Tom's just dislodged something. And he's sweaty and he smells awful, like a dive bar, but Tom doesn't care, knows that this is what he needs right now. Knows that this is what _he_ would need, if their roles were reversed. 'Thank you, Roland,' he says, sincerely, his voice thick, 'It's - y'really gave me a leg up back there. I don't know what I would have done if you - if you hadn't.' 

Then Tom is pulling back and Roland is peering up at him, eyes bright, feverish. Tom forgets sometimes that he's the taller of the two of them, has never really felt it. And he's been wrong about these sorts of things before - catastrophically wrong - but then Roland is leaning forward - tripping, really - his breath warm and shuddering against Tom's face.

It's not a kiss. Not really. Roland's lips bump against Tom's mouth, drag across his cheek as his forehead comes to rest in the crook of Tom's neck. Like two drunk kids slow-dancing in a high-school gymnasium. Tom wonders if this is as far as he'll take it, if he's so drunk that he's fallen asleep on his feet, and then Roland's got his fingers in Tom's belt-loops and is pushing him back against the doorframe, rolling their hips together. Tom lets out a choked, abject sound; makes another when Roland mouths at a spot just below his jaw, hot and wet. 

And Tom wants it. Has done for some time now, since Roland first came to his rescue at the _Sawhorse. _Perhaps even before then - the night they found Will's body in the cave. After Detective Hays had explained everything, Tom had been disconsolate. Easy for a man to fuck up in that kind of situation, say the wrong thing. Roland hadn't said anything at all, just laced his fingers through Tom's and gripped tight as they sat side by side on the porch swing. Obviously Tom hadn't been considering it at the time - and what an awful human being he'd have been if he was - but in the days after, he'd catch himself imagining. Imagining lifting Roland's hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against the dry, warm skin there. Had felt Roland's eyes on him, like a solid thing, at the wake. 

Tom wants it, but Roland is very drunk, and Lori's not been gone for more than a couple of weeks by Tom's private estimation. Tom wants it, but he knows what it's like to wake up in a bed next to somebody, filled with remorse. Despising yourself. 

He pushes Roland away. 

_xii. _

Roland goes back to work, doesn't do too much. Shoots the shit with Cheyenne, hands in his report. Meets with his partner for lunch, discusses how they're going to operate moving forward with the tweaker case. Whitacre - a mild, personable guy; happily married, one little girl, another on the way - looks at Roland from across the table and squints. 

'I got something on my face?' Roland demands. Knows he looks miserable. Lovesick, exhausted and hung-over. 

'You got overtime accrued?' Whitacre asks, and of course Roland does. Had worked himself into the ground after Lori'd left. Had probably worked too much while she was around, come to think of it. 'Use it,' Whitacre says, 'Take a couple more days off. I'll finish up with the bikers. Got most of 'em on possession, as is. Reports from lab'll be back on Friday, and then... Roland, are you listening?' 

'Yeah, man, I just.' He scrubs a hand across his mouth, shuts his eyes. 'I'd rather not be home, right now,' he mumbles. 

'Lori?' 

Roland nods, can't be bothered explaining the whole Tom debacle right now. Doubts he could explain it in a way that would make Whitacre understand without... well. Roland would like to keep his job. 

'You're of no use to me like this,' his partner says, 'You sound fucking terrible, you look worse, and it's not going to do us any favours speaking to these KAs.' 

Roland opens his mouth to argue and finds he doesn't have the energy. Knows Whitacre's right. Appreciates his honesty, which is very Wayne-like today, brutal and to-the-point. He wonders what Wayne would have to say about Tom; knows he'd probably tell Roland to kick him out, that he's a grown man and not some hapless orphan. 

Case-in-point: Tom's been working his way through the classifieds. Says there's a garage in Fort Bragg looking for a mechanic, somebody who knows their way around a vintage car. Tells Roland this in a calm, unaffected way over dinner that night - takeaway again, because cooking for each other suddenly seems too intimate, like playing house. 

'Got enough in that cheque to pay rent for a month or so. Figure I'll focus on finding a place first, get myself settled.' 

'Sounds like a plan,' Roland agrees, trying and failing to muster the appropriate degree of enthusiasm. 

In his periphery, he sees Tom glance up, gaze lingering on Roland a moment before he scrapes his chair back, carries his plate over to the sink. 'I'll sleep on the couch tonight,' he murmurs, and Roland crosses and uncrosses his legs beneath the table, wants to bang his head down on it, throw his glass at the wall. 

'Sure,' he says, sounding strangled. 

The next day, he makes like he's going to work, can't think of any torture worse than he and Tom sitting around ignoring the elephant in the room, Tom too polite to ask for an apology, Roland too ashamed of himself to offer one. Drives around listening to Springsteen and generally acting like a sad son-of-a-bitch. Gets into another fight - makes sure he wins this time. Comes home at midnight and crashes into bed, pretends to be asleep when Tom creeps into the room, leaves a glass of water and an aspirin on the bedside table. Hovers there a moment and it takes all of Roland's self-restraint not to reach out and clutch at him, tug him down.

Rinse and repeat for two more days, and then Tom is announcing that he's found a place in Goshen. Refurbished trailer, fairly secluded, which suits him just fine. Plenty of land.

'Might get a dog,' he says, 'For company, y'know.' 

_Wouldn't need no company if you just stayed put_, Roland wants to say. Instead, he helps Tom load his few meagre possessions into the Chevy, smiles and claps him on the back when it comes time to part ways.

'You need any help with furniture -'

'Owners left some stuff behind. All set for now.' 

'Right.' Tom has told him this before. Roland had forgotten. 'Well. You call if you need anything. Y'still got my number?' 

Tom hefts his wallet, smiles grimly. 'Thank you, Detective West.' 

'Any time. You drive careful now, roads out that way're icy.' Christ, he sounds like his mother. 

Tom nods. Looks like he wants to say something, swallows his words. Gets into his car and drives away, exhaust fumes pluming white in the cold winter air. Roland watches him go. Watches a while longer after he's disappeared over the rise. Feels like he's swallowed something sharp and heavy. Turns, limps his way back up the porch steps. Disappears into his empty house. 

_xiii. epilogue_

In the weeks that follow, he becomes - in Whitacre's words - a _mean sunnava bitch. _Comes after their biker gang harder than is really justified. Roughs up a couple of perps. Gives his deposition, just barely. Gets reprimanded by his superiors after he attacks the guy who'd been dosing his kids, botching a confession. Spends New Year's Eve alone on his couch, watching _Kojak_ reruns, no one at the station exactly itching to invite him to a barbecue.

Whitacre starts bringing paperbacks with him on patrol, since Roland's conversation has mostly degenerated into monosyllabic _yes'_s and _no'_s. Turns to him one night, justifiably angry after Roland's sniped at him one too many times, asks, 'What the fuck is_ wrong _with you, man?' 

And Roland feels the anger suddenly leave him. Buries his face in his hands. Doesn't quite stoop to weeping, but comes pretty close. Next day, there's a pamphlet for a local Alcoholics Anonymous on his desk, and Whitacre's avoiding his gaze, though he's not necessarily the culprit. Anyone who spends more than five minutes with Roland can tell he's been imbibing more than usual. 

Tom calls early February. Asks Roland if he'd like to stop round for dinner. Says he's properly moved in now, has got a job at a nearby garage, is earning a steady wage. Would have asked earlier but didn't think Roland would be too enthused at the idea of eating spaghetti from a tin, surrounded by a dozen unpacked cardboard boxes.

He's so light in the way he asks, so casual, even, that Roland convinces himself it's merely a courtesy. That Tom doesn't really want him there. He makes up some excuse - active case, chasing up leads. Hates the way Tom pauses before replying, painfully cheerful, 'Well, hey. You've got the address now. Work ever brings you over to Goshen...' 

Roland ends up calling him back later that week, wracked with guilt at the thought of Tom sat all alone in his sterile new house, devoid of any personal effects. Asks if Tom can do dinner the next day. 

'Hell, let me check my schedule,' Tom says, drily, and it takes Roland a moment to realise he's joking. 

Roland rocks up twenty minutes early the next evening, sits in his car, a ways down the road, scrutinising Tom's new home. Decides it looks friendly, despite the fact that a pick-up truck could pull in right now and tow it away with very little difficulty. He checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror before making his way over, which is - _stupid_, really. He’s not some kid on his way to pick up a prom date. He’s eating a perfunctory dinner with a man he’s thoroughly alienated.

Tom opens the front door before Roland’s fully crossed the yard, like he’d been waiting at the window. Looks good - not a glowing picture of health, obviously, but like he’s been pacing himself since he left Roland’s house. Roland can tell he's been drinking - he'd look a hell of a lot worse if he'd gone completely cold-turkey - but he's sober right now. Has gelled his hair back, which is - well, Roland had liked how wild it had looked, during the week they'd lived together, but he’s not about to just come out and _say_ a thing like that. 

Tom gives him the grand tour, which essentially comprises of the open-plan living area, master bedroom and bathroom. The furniture left over by the previous owners is a little worn looking, but at least it’s not floral upholstered or covered in saran wrap. 

Tom makes him sit down while he grabs them both a beer. Seems endearingly comfortable with playing the host. Roland imagines that’s why he’d been so uncomfortable at his place. That he’s unused to or unwilling to be looked after. Knows, logically, that Tom had had plenty of other reasons to be uncomfortable in his company. 

In the present moment, however, Roland is able to close his eyes and imagine that nothing is strained between the two of them. That he’s just here for a meal with a friend. That the only difference between this place and Whitacre’s is that here there’s no grubby four-year-old asking to play with his service pistol, to see his badge. Then Tom reappears, looking apologetic, and the illusion is shattered. Apparently the fan on the oven's given out and the pot-roast is going to be another forty-five minutes at least. 

Roland smiles stiffly, tells him not to worry about it. Accepts his PBR and settles back onto the couch, hopes that if he acts relaxed enough, something will eventually stick. He can feel Tom's gaze on him, probing. Stares resolutely at the scratched laminate coffee table in an attempt to ignore it. 

'This is a first-rate place y'got here, Tom,' he says, 'I tell ya, when I first heard the word _trailer_, I was thinking...' He trails off, can't quite remember what it was he'd been about to say. 

'It _is_ nice,' Tom agrees, if only to spare Roland the embarrassment. 'First month's rent was included in the bond,' he adds, after a beat. 

'Decent of them.'

'Yeah.'

The silence drags on, and Roland feels a kind of rising hysteria, the sort that makes him want to rip his own hair out. Wonders if this is how perps must feel in the bull-pen, when he and Whitacre are putting the screws on. Finally - _finally _\- Tom joins him on the couch, and now it's not so much of an effort _not_ to look at him. He opens his Pabst with a pneumatic hiss but doesn't drink, just sits there with the bottle held loosely between his knees. 

'I'm sorry,' he says, after what feels like an age. 

'Don't worry about it. New oven, I get it.' 

'S'not what I meant.' 

Roland feels his mouth go dry, takes a sip of beer. 'Yeah. I know,' he says, hoarsely, 'Just don't think y'should be apologising for that... that other thing.' 

'Was wrong of me, just walking away,' Tom continues, ignoring him, 'Should have talked about it.' 

'Ain't nothing to talk about.' 

'Roland.' And he's never heard Tom sound so stern before. 'I'm not angry with you. It's not - y'didn't do nothing I hadn't already thought about.' 

'But you didn't want it. Me.' 

Tom makes a truncated noise, like the beginning of a sentence abruptly aborted. Shifts slightly, the couch creaking. 'You were drunk,' he says, gently. 

'Yep. Well. Figured one of us was bound to be.' And Roland cringes, instantly regretting his choice of wording. '...I apologise. That was - that was low of me.' 

'Was a little, yeah.' 

Roland is still scowling down at his feet, cursing himself and his stupid, slow mouth, his inability to ever say the right thing, when he feels a hand cup his cheek, nudging him back round. Manages in the depths of his embarrassment to raise his head a little and there's Tom, looking at him like Roland's the one who's hurting. Like Roland's the one who's lost his kids. Smooths a thumb under Roland's eye, along the creases there that Lori used to say made him look meaner than he really is. 

'Ain't you been sleeping?' he murmurs, and he's not smiling - Tom doesn't ever _really_ smile - but there's an immense fondness to his expression all the same. 

'No, not really,' Roland breathes, and then Tom is kissing him, easy and deep and warm, and neither of them are drunk, and Roland can't recall the last time he kissed a man when one or both of them weren't completely shit-faced. Finds it isn't so harrowing, with Tom's fingernails rasping through his hair, Tom's warmth pressed up against his side. 

‘You -' he croaks, smoothing an errant curl off of Tom’s forehead. Feels something inside him fracture, soft as a quail's egg, when Tom catches him by the wrist and presses his lips, dry and close-mouthed, to the centre of his palm.

'C’mere,’ he says, thickly, and half drags, half hoists the other man onto his lap. Near crushes his leg in the process and he’s going to regret that come morning, but then again, probably not. He decides, abruptly, that Tom’s new look is entirely too buttoned up, tugs the hem of his shirt free and smooths a hand up the warm expanse of his back. Digs his fingers in a little and feels Tom go loose-boned, pliant.

‘Roland,’ he says, pleadingly. Sounds almost like he’s had the breath punched out of his lungs.

‘Shh man, I got you.’

Tom’s so gangly that he has to arch up quite a bit to kiss him. Roland hazards it anyway, figures that Tom could use the reassurance. Figures he could use some too.

‘How d’you want to do this?’

Tom makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, shakes his head, and it occurs to Roland that this might be _all_ Tom is ready for, right now. And that’s fine. Roland is patient. Waited four years for a phone call, he can wait for this too.

Then Tom is palming over the front of his slacks and Roland jolts, nearly smacks his head against the wall. Breathes in sharply through his nose. ‘Jesus, fuck.’

Tom pauses, his hands stilling on Roland’s belt. Looks at him searchingly, brow creased. ‘This alright?’

Roland nods vaguely, bites back on a groan at the sudden loss of friction. 

‘Some guys don’t,’ Tom takes a steadying breath, ‘Some guys don’t _like_ -'

‘Anything you want is good, Tom,’ Roland says, and means it, ‘Anything at all.’

He tries not to think about what Tom’s past encounters were like - how loveless they must have been, how cold - as the man works his belt open. Gets a whole lot easier - the not thinking - once Tom’s got a hand around his cock.

‘God,’ he gasps, tilting his head back. ‘God, _Tom_.’

It’s difficult for him to last long like this - stone-cold sober, every image and sensation thrown into sharp relief. Difficult because it’s Tom, who Roland’s wanted to touch like this for a long while now, if he’s being entirely honest with himself.

Eventually, he gathers his wits enough to pull down the zipper on Tom’s jeans, work a hand into his boxers. Tom seems to lose control of his higher motor functions for a second, hand stuttering to a halt, forehead dropping onto Roland’s shoulder again.

‘'M sorry,’ he slurs, sounding raw, ‘Sorry, Rolan’, I just -'

Roland nods, gets a hand around the both of them. Tom lets out a shaky moan, rocking forward slightly. Roland thinks it’s those sounds more than anything that push him over the edge; Tom’s breath in his ear, ragged and low; the noise Tom makes when he comes, strangled and sort of surprised, like his own pleasure’d just snuck up on him. And Roland’s not the most romantic guy in the world when it comes to sex, figures that kind of talk should be reserved for candlelit dinners and long walks along the beach, but he’s practically babbling as he falls apart in Tom’s arms. Saying _forgive me_. Saying _don’t leave me_. Saying_ I love, I love, I love you._

After the matter, Tom clams up. Goes quiet. Excuses himself, says he needs to take a piss, and spends so long in the bathroom that Roland worries he’s spooked him. That Tom's climbed out the window or is simply waiting for Roland to leave.

Eventually, he plucks up the courage to stick his head in the door, finds his host sat on the lip of the bathtub, fingers splayed across his knees. His hair’s come loose from its pomade and is cow-licked every which way. Makes him look like he’s just been electrocuted. 

'Alright?' Roland asks, and Tom nods, mouth a thin, pale line. Keeps nodding until whatever he's trying to keep at bay gets the better of him and he sobs, just once, burying his face in his hands. 'Whoa there,' Roland shushes, crouching down on the cold tile floor, 'Tom, hon, you don't... Is it - did I do something wrong?' 

Tom shakes his head, vigorously. 'I ain't never,' he says, 'I didn't think...' And suddenly he's looking up at Roland with terrible urgency. 'Did you love Lori?' 

The question catches him so of guard that Roland almost laughs. 'Well, sure.' He sees something shutter in Tom's expression then, go cold, and panics, grasps him by the forearms. 'I _did, _Tom, I did love her, but not for - not for a long while now. Ain't like I'm stepping out on anything.' 

'I been with guys - guys who had wives, girlfriends. They hate you for it, after a while. Think you tricked ‘em.'

'It's not like that with me.' 

Tom deflates, the worry draining out of him. Seemingly placated, for now. Roland's got a sneaking suspicion they'll be having this conversation pretty regularly, in the coming days. Doesn't want to imagine how fucked up Tom's idea of intimacy is. Figures he'll un-fuck it, given time. 

They somehow come to kissing again, Roland hoping if he digs his thumbs into Tom's jaw firmly enough, he'll be able to mutely reiterate everything he's just promised. They're eventually interrupted by what sounds like an egg-timer ringing in the next room over. 'The fuck?' Roland mutters, pulling back. 

'Pot-roast,' Tom mumbles, looking a little dazed. 

'Oh, Jesus Christ.' 

Neither of them sleep on the couch that night. 


End file.
